


Consummation

by britomart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love Confessions, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart/pseuds/britomart
Summary: How Jon Snow arrived at the decision to knock on Daenerys Targaryen's door, and what happened afterward. Some angst, more comfort, and "many things." ;)





	1. Three Knocks

**Author's Note:**

> While eagerly awaiting updates to @NorthernLights37's fantastically awesome "Adrift," I began to consider my own take on the development and consummation of Jonerys's romance. Chapter 1 is rated Mature, while later chapters will be rated Explicit.
> 
> This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" universe, and based specifically on HBO's television adaptation of the series. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. GRRM and HBO owns these characters and their world; I do not claim any ownership of them, and I intend no disrespect by borrowing them briefly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't easy for Jon Snow to work up the nerve to knock on Daenerys Targaryen's door.
> 
> (Jon Snow POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I'd like to get to the "good stuff," Jon is a psychologically complex and profoundly ethical character who would brood like a champ when faced with the prospect of confessing his feelings to Daenerys.

Jon Snow stood at the prow of the ship, staring northward. He ran his bare hands over the seam where the wood ended and the gilt of the figurehead began. The dragon’s neck stretched out over the water, gleaming in the starlight as it plunged hungrily toward each new wave. He thought of the lost dragon, Viserion, frozen beneath the water of that nameless lake beyond the Wall. The dragon who (he didn’t consider them beasts, anymore) had nearly died in vain, thanks to his refusal to dissemble to Cersei.

Still, if the gods ever gave him that day at the Dragonpit to live all over again—and he prayed they didn’t—he would make all the same choices. He’d meant what he’d said, both about Daenerys and about honesty.

“ _When enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies.”_

Davos had wanted to shake him, Tyrion had wanted to throttle him, and for a few fraught moments, Daenerys had seemed ready to spit fire without the help of her dragons. Maybe they were all right. Maybe a good ruler had to dissemble sometimes. Maybe, when they reached Winterfell, he should abdicate in favor of Sansa. She, at least, wouldn’t hesitate to tell expedient falsehoods to the fucking Lannisters.

But the Night King was the true enemy, and he couldn’t be lied to.

Despite his heavy furs, Jon shuddered at the memory of those enchanted eyes, set like sapphires in a face that betrayed no emotion. That was the worst part—the unearthly calm of the hand of death as it stretched out to snuff out your life. _All_ life.

The cold sliced through his furs like a flayer’s knife as the memory took him: crashing into the icy depths of the lake; desperately kicking his way back up to the surface; gasping as he clambered to his feet, clutching at Longclaw with clumsy fingers. Relief that Daenerys had escaped with the captured wight. Despair at finding himself alone. The terrible knowledge that he would die only to rise again—driven mindlessly to fight his brothers, his family, his friends, his enemies.

Behind him, one Ironborn called a question to another. The waking nightmare shattered, and he found himself clutching the wooden base of the figurehead so hard his knuckles were white and aching. His breaths came in heaving gasps, and he was shivering just as hard as he had while clinging desperately to Benjen’s horse, before he’d lapsed into unconsciousness.

Then, he had awakened to the sight of Daenerys at his bedside, her perfect face the picture of concern and solicitude. In that moment, he had loathed himself for being the cause of Viserion’s death. But she hadn’t hated him. She didn’t still. And now, whenever he thought of Hardhome, or the knives in the dark, or the Night King’s awful implacability, the remembered warmth of her hand in his pulled him back to the world of the living.

Now, he held her image before his mind’s eye—her complex silver braids, her endless amethyst eyes, her lush and expressive mouth—and finally, his trembling ceased. Daenerys was beautiful in every way, her physical perfection only the least of her charms. Jon had resisted many women whose beauty was only skin-deep. Against a good heart, however, he was apparently helpless.

“And I don’t mean it the way Davos does,” he muttered into the wind.

If he wasn’t going to lie to Cersei fucking Lannister, then he certainly wasn’t going to lie to himself. Over the few months of his acquaintance with Daenerys, his initial irritation at her arrogance had given way, first to grudging respect and then to outright admiration. She cared for her people. She hated the reality Cersei had created, but she didn’t want to watch it burn. Instead, Daenerys wanted to transform it—to create a world in which paupers and bastards and dwarves were valued just as much as the highborn. Breaking the wheel, she called it. He’d never even dared to dream of such a world, but she made him believe it was possible.

Jon remembered how she had wept after he proclaimed her his queen. “I hope I deserve it,” she had said.

That was when he realized he was in love with her.

He’d been falling into it for a while, of course—ever since she stood beside him in that cave, her violet eyes glinting in the torchlight as she surveyed the intricate paintings. She had trusted him enough to leave her guards behind. Once, as he moved the torch, his shoulder brushed hers, but she hadn’t pulled away. And her voice had quavered when she spoke of the cave’s history.

_“They were standing right here, standing right where we’re standing, before there were Targaryens or Starks or Lannisters.”_

The awe in her words had carved a hollow space in his chest, opening him to a longing that only grew deeper and fiercer with each passing day. That space had ached when she flew off to Highgarden, and it filled with a fierce joy upon her return. He had tried to seal it up with ice as he journeyed beyond the Wall, but ice was no match for a dragon.

Jon might have tried harder to fight his own feelings had he not suspected their reciprocation. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—she looked at him the way Ygritte had. There was shyness in that look, and also hunger. Whenever he saw it, the ache in his chest sharpened into the razor’s edge of desire. He hoped she couldn’t tell.

_“I’ve been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled.”_

When his knuckles cracked, he looked down and saw that his hands had closed into fists. He remembered beating Ramsay Bolton into a bloody pulp for what he had done to Sansa, to Rickon. He only wished he could do the same to everyone who had dared to harm Daenerys. She didn’t need his protection, and she was more than capable of avenging herself, but he wanted to offer her his sword anyway. 

His sword. His love. His body. He wanted to offer them all up to her on the altar of his devotion. He had thought there was no time for a love affair when the Great War threatened an entire civilization fragile with infighting. Yet now, suddenly, there was an interlude. All too soon, they would arrive at White Harbor. From there, they would ride in state to Winterfell—a grand production he had suggested with the intent to help the North learn to love her the way he did. As they marched northwest, their party would swell and their duties increase. But here, on this ship they shared only with loyal retainers, they existed in a fugue state—unable to plan too far ahead, forced to live relatively in the moment. If he was going to tell her how he felt, he could choose no better time.

He pried open his fists and scrubbed both hands across his face, trying to muster his confidence. If she didn’t return his feelings, better that he know now. No matter what, they were pledged to the same war. He could be certain of her commitment, even if her good heart was uninspired by his confession.

As he considered how best to put his thoughts into words, Jon grimaced at the stars. He never had been much for speeches. For one insane moment, he entertained the thought of consulting Tyrion—or better yet, Davos, who was surprisingly silver-tongued.

No. He would do this himself, by the gods. He would march himself to Daenerys’s door, and he would knock, and if she answered, he would tell her. And if he’d been wrong about those shy, hungry looks, he would hunt down Davos and drown himself in wine.

His resolve lasted until he descended below decks, into the rabbit warren of the ship’s interior. Then, the nausea set in. He ignored it. Grimly, he strode past Dothraki and Unsullied and the occasional Ironborn, exchanging clipped greetings but never slackening his pace until he finally stood outside her door.

Jon took a long, deep breath. He examined the intricate metalwork set into the wood. Three dragons. There were only two, now. He still blamed himself, but that was one key difference between them. She didn’t hold him responsible. The force of all her considerable anger was directed instead against the army of the dead—one of the many reasons why he loved her.

He loved her, and that was the truth. The truth was important. The truth was necessary. He had looked into the eyes of the gods damned Night King, twice. He could tell Daenerys Targaryen that he was in love with her. He could. He would.

Right now.

Jon raised his right hand and knocked quickly, three times.


	2. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes his confession.
> 
> (Jon Snow POV)

When Daenerys opened the door, all the words Jon had so carefully constructed collapsed into rubble. She still wore the navy collared surcoat in which she had appeared at the war council, though she had removed the silver dragon chain. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered.

Whatever she saw in his face, she didn’t look away. Instead, she created the space for him to enter, silently welcoming him in. Dry mouthed, he crossed the threshold. He caught hold of the door, then looked to her for permission. She didn’t speak or move, but her eyes betrayed the shyness, the hunger. He pushed the door shut.

They were alone. Behind them was her bed, where she had insisted he recuperate from his ordeal beyond the Wall on their voyage back to Dragonstone. As he’d slowly grown stronger, so had his guilt at usurping her place, until he had insisted right back that he was well enough to have his own quarters. He remembered how her eyes had flashed like gemstones during that particular argument. He remembered wanting to kiss away the taut frown on her lips. He still didn’t know where she had slept for the first stage of that hazy, fragmented journey. Perhaps she hadn’t. Each time he’d opened his eyes, she had been at his side.

The memory of her solicitude brought with it a welcome surge of confidence. He held out his hands, and when her fingers interlaced with his, he could have howled in triumph.

“Daenerys,” he said softly.

“Jon.”

She did not seem wary, only curious. Good. He’d won her trust, and that was a precious thing. He hoped he would retain it after what he was about to say.

“You’ve seen what we’re up against. We both know the stakes and the risks. But tonight, I realized I can’t face the Night King again until I’ve been entirely honest with you.”

One perfect eyebrow arched. “Are you saying you have lied to your queen?”

“I have not told you falsehoods,” Jon said quickly, “and I swear I never will. But neither have I spoken the whole truth.”

“Oh? And what have you omitted?”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words took all his breath to say. He watched as she absorbed them—as her lips parted and her eyes widened, lashes flickering. He dared to smooth his thumbs across her knuckles. When his chest began to hurt, he realized he’d forgotten to inhale.

She extricated her hands, then stepped closer and threaded her arms around his neck. As her body drew flush with his, flames streaked down his spine, firing his desire. He bit back a groan, not wanting to frighten her with the intensity of his response. Gently, he rested his hands on her hips. Her pupils were huge, drowning out all but the thinnest nimbus of amethyst. He wanted to fall into them and never surface.

Daenerys Targaryen lifted her face and kissed him. Her lips were even softer than he’d imagined. They pressed against his for a long, perfect moment. He breathed in the scent of her, woodsmoke and wildflowers. She tasted like the true home he’d never had. What did it mean? Did she share his feelings?

As if she had heard his thought, she broke the kiss. Resting her forehead against his, she stroked the back of his neck, twining the short hairs there through her fingertips. “There is a part of me that does not want to love you, Jon Snow. You’re far too reckless with your own life.” She pulled back enough to cup his face. Her eyes glistened with emotion.“But that part has been drowned out by all the others.”

It took several moments for the logic of her words to penetrate his addled brain, but when it did, relief and joy overwhelmed him. He kissed her ardently and she pressed herself against him as the moment went on and on and on. Her mouth opened, and he groaned at the slow slide of her tongue seeking entrance. He parted his own lips, inviting her in, offering himself up to her. When the tips of their tongues touched, he moaned into her mouth. Sweet, so sweet.

His hands moved of their own accord. Only when his palm encountered bare skin did Jon realize he had grasped Daenerys around the waist and slid one hand beneath her tunic to caress the warm skin of her lower back. She felt like silk against his palm. He wanted to take her, to know her heat from the inside out. With a firm tug, he pulled her closer, snugging her hips to his. She gasped at the contact.

As soon as he realized what he had done, he withdrew as though burned. She was breathing hard, her lips glistening. He licked his. More—he wanted more. So much more. But she had been through hell, and he never wanted to hurt her.

“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” her eyes flared. “Am I made of glass? Do I seem so weak?”

Praying for the right words, he forced himself to hold her gaze. “At our first meeting, you told me some of what you’ve suffered at the hands of other men.” He cleared his throat. “My sister, Sansa—she came to me at Castle Black after having been raped and abused by Ramsay Bolton for months. She was the strongest person I’ve ever known, until I met you. And no, I’m not referring to your dragons. Even without them, you’d be extraordinary.” He bridged the space between them with one hand, brushing his thumb across one flushed cheek. “I don’t ever want to remind you of your abusers.”

She stepped forward and slid her arms around his waist, resting her head over his heart. He smoothed her hair with soft touches, marveling that this was really happening. That she loved him.When she nipped at his neck, he shuddered and he felt her smile against his skin. She pressed a line of kisses up to his ear, pausing to suck lightly on the sensitive lobe. He grunted in surprise and pleasure, hips jolting at the sensation. Even through the layers of clothing that separated their bodies, he felt the beckoning warmth of her. He belonged there, enclosed in her intimate embrace. He knew it.

“I love you,” she said, before shame could take hold of him. “You are the best and most honorable man I know. You are nothing like the ones who hurt me.”

Anger rose in his throat like a flame. “Are they all dead? Because if not—”

“They are.” The cold finality in her words was a different kind of comfort from her embrace.

“Good.” Jon smoothed his cheek against her hair, tamping down the rage that stirred his blood. He focused on her, and how good she smelled, and how she fit perfectly against him. “I know you don’t need my protection. Gods know you have far more powerful weapons than me.” Still within the circle of her arms, he pulled back just enough to see her eyes. “Whatever you want from me is yours.”

“Jon Snow.”She curled both hands around his upper arms. “There is so very much I want from you. I want to win this war beside you, and I want us both to survive it. I want you to help me create a new and better world.” She pressed light kisses along his jaw until she reached his lips. “I want you to stop fearing your desire. I want you inside me. Tonight.”

Then she was kissing him again, and when her tongue darted into his mouth, he sucked at it. The sound of her whimper galvanized him, and without breaking the kiss, he brought his hands between them to begin undoing her buttons. When the surcoat hung loose, he pushed it from her shoulders, revealing the pale gold tunic beneath. Slowly, deliberately, she untucked it from the waistline of her slim-fitting trousers.

“Take off your armor,” she said quietly. “You do not need it here.”

His blood roared like a dragon in his ears as he unbuckled his leather vest and let it fall to the floor—but as he grasped the hem of his finespun woolen shirt, he hesitated. She had seen him without it before, in this very room, but his ravaged torso was hardly a handsome sight.

And then, her warm fingers came to rest atop his. “Off,” she repeated, gently but firmly. “I want no barriers between us.”

With a sharp exhale, he shucked off the shirt. She raised her slim arms above her head, and he slowly raised her tunic. Gradually, he revealed the pale skin of her midriff, the furrows of her ribcage, the slopes of her breasts. When the garment joined the growing pile on the floor, he took in the whole of her, marveling at her impossible beauty. She could have been an alabaster sculpture, save for the rise and fall of her chest. The air seemed to grow thick around him; he could not fill his lungs.

“Tell me what you desire,” she said. “The truth, Jon.”

“To devour you.” His voice was harsh with need.

She smiled. Her hands hung loosely at her sides, palms facing outward. “Come here and take what you want.”

He stepped forward, slid his arms around her waist, and kissed her again. This time, he claimed her lips in an imitation of how he wished to claim her body—with slow, deep thrusts that coaxed a delicious whimper from her throat. When she pressed her breasts to his torso, he groaned into her mouth. He had to feel them. _Now_.

Jon broke the kiss and ran his palms slowly along her ribs. He kept his gaze on her face, watching closely for any sign of fear or discomfort, but her eyes fluttered shut as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. They were full and firm and so deliciously soft. He mapped their contours with his fingers, exulting in Daenerys’s sharp inhale. When he gently pinched one rosy nipple, she bit her bottom lip. He rolled it experimentally between two fingers, and her eyes opened, dark and pleading. He let her gaze swallow him as he increased the pressure, thrilling to the soft, needy sounds she made in response.

He wrapped one arm around her and bent his head to pay homage to the breast he had neglected. As he swiped his tongue across her nipple, Daenerys cried out and surged against him. He did it again and again, and when he gently closed his teeth around her, she called his name. Awe filled him, spilling over into the need to feel and hear her ecstasy. He released her, waiting for her eyes to open and focus on him.

“I love you, Daenerys.” He sank to his knees before her, rubbing the soft skin of her hips just above her leggings. He curled his fingers into the fabric but did not pull, signaling his intent but awaiting her approval. “Weeks ago, I pledged my loyalty to you in this very room, but I was too weak to kneel. It is past time for me to bend the knee, my Queen.”

She reached down to brush trembling fingers across his face, tears shining in her endless eyes. “Jon,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table.”

He hadn’t expected her to know the words. His chest ached and his eyes blurred. The need to serve and protect her made him even more desperate to claim her as his own.

“I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor,” Daenerys continued. She stroked her thumb along his mouth, and he kissed it, swirling his tongue across the sensitive pad. “I swear it by the old gods. The gods you keep.”

He held her gaze. “Tonight, I want to worship you.”

Her lips quirked. “I already told you to take what you want.”

“You. Only you.” Slowly, deliberately, Jon tugged at the fabric. He pulled it over her hips and down along her legs until she stood gloriously nude before him. The hair between her legs was silver. He stroked it with the lightest of touches, deliberately avoiding the pale pink pearl that cried out for his attention.

“Oh,” she murmured, her eyes once again sliding shut. “Jon. Please.”

He kissed her abdomen. He kissed the inside of one thigh and then the other. Finally, he brought his mouth to her, inhaling the aroma of her sex as he closed his lips around her clitoris. When she arched against him, he returned his hands to her waist, holding her firmly in place.

Home, he realized dimly as he swirled his tongue in soft circles around the focal point of her need. She was home. He was finally where he belonged. And he would never, ever, let her go.


	3. Deeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Deeds is truer than words” - Ygritte
> 
> (Daenerys POV)

Daenerys was burning alive, and she never wanted the sweet torment to end. Jon’s tongue was the flame, licking at her softly, stoking her pleasure until she thought she must explode. Yet he refused to allow it. Time after time, he brought her to the edge of completion, only to leave her dangling from the precipice.

Her legs trembled as he drove her higher and higher, sucking gently even as his tongue fluttered against her with exquisite softness. Her bones were melting. All she wanted was more.

Again, he stopped.

Before she could protest, he stood, fluidly as a dancer, lifting her up in the process. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He nipped lightly at one nipple, then soothed it with soft strokes of his tongue. She clutched at his mass of dark curls as the fire within her blazed even hotter. As he carried her toward the bed, the ridges of his abdominal muscles slid against the juncture of her thighs, and she gasped at the sensation.

When he lowered her to the mattress, she released her grip on his neck and allowed her hands to trail down his scarred, muscular chest, down to the slick spot on his stomach that was the evidence of just how much she wanted him. His gaze followed her fingers, and when she held them up, glistening in the lamplight, he clasped her wrist and pulled them into his mouth. He savored her as though she were a delicacy. Never had she so ardently wished to be consumed.

“Hurry,” she demanded.

But he shook his head. “I’m just getting started,” he said hoarsely, his Northern accent more pronounced than usual. Was that a sign that his control was slipping? She hoped so. He seemed to fear his own passions, but she knew, with a bone deep certainty that defied all logic, that he would never hurt her.

And then he released her fingers and pushed her legs apart, returning to the apex of her thighs as though he was dying of thirst and she was the oasis. His tongue danced across her most sensitive skin, then stroked down to trace the opening of her body, coaxing forth a fresh rush of wetness. Before she could even think of feeling self-conscious, he plunged his tongue inside, over and over and over.

Daenerys forced her eyes open, needing to see what he was doing to her, but the sight of him fucking her so intimately was like staring at the sun. She grasped his hair with one hand and brought the other to her own breast as the pleasure spiraled, closer and closer.

Jon raised his head. “Not yet.”

Dulled by the anticipation of ecstasy, her reflexes were not fast enough to hold him in place, and he resisted her attempts to return his mouth to where it had been. Instead, he stared up at her, lips glistening with her wetness, their corners twisting up in the hint of a smile.

She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. With a desperate effort, she slowed her racing heart and modulated her breathing. “Are you laughing at me?” she asked, her imperiousness belied by her gasps. “Because if you are, I’ll—”

“Don’t make threats you’re not prepared to carry out, Your Grace.”

Jon pressed one palm to her abdomen, holding her against the bed with a light pressure she could easily overcome. His obsidian eyes glittered with the fever of desire, yet still he held himself in check.In that moment, she fell in love with him all over again. Later, perhaps, she could convince him that he did not need to protect her from himself. For now, she understood his restraint as a token of the love he had declared.

“I promised to worship you,” he said, “and I’m keeping my word.”

With exquisite gentleness, he traced the contours of her sex with the callused tips of his fingers, tantalizingly close to the focal point of her need. His touch was fire, and she arched to meet it. He studied her as he stroked her, and the fierce intensity of his gaze only inflamed her need. As her desperation grew, she tried to shift her hips, but his hand held her fast.

“Patience, my Queen.”

He was laughing at her again, the smug bastard. “I don’t need patience,” she said hotly, “I have drag—oh!”

The words died on her lips as he slid inside one finger inside her, and she looked down at him, stunned into silence. He withdrew almost completely but then returned, pushing deeper. On his next stroke, he curled his fingertip up, and the exquisite sensation unlocked her voice. She cried out his name first, and when he returned with two fingers, she began to beg. He didn’t hurry. Slowly, languidly, he bent his head. Daenerys held her breath, waiting for the heat of his mouth to set her free.

The first exquisitely soft stroke tore a whimper from her throat. At the second, her vision blurred. And then he sealed her lips around her, and the pressure of his mouth conspired with the expert fluttering of his tongue to send her soaring over the edge. The inferno swept her up, buoying her on molten waves of ecstasy as her body clenched hard around his thrusting fingers.

Consciousness returned slowly. When she finally opened her eyes, Daenerys found Jon Snow looking at her with an expression she had never before witnessed on the face of any man. Desire was part of it, and protectiveness, and also awe—but it held something else besides, something deep and strong and comforting. Love, she suddenly realized. It was love. Jon loved her in a way no one had ever before loved her: not for her beauty or her body or her dragons or her army, not out of pity or compassion for the hardships she had endured. He loved her because he understood her. He loved her for herself.

“I love you,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. Perhaps he had. He licked his lips, and the knowledge that he was savoring her taste was a goad to her own desire. “And I want to do that again.”

She laughed breathlessly and sat up, filled with a sudden, ebullient joy, and the fierce urge to be as generous with him as he had been with her. “You are extraordinarily good at it, Jon Snow. You will addle my brain.” As a plan of attack formed in her mind, she beckoned to him, then tapped her lips with one fingertip. “Kiss me, first.”

His gaze betrayed the ferocity of his need. As he slid up her body to settle into her arms, she felt the evidence of his desire through the barrier of his breeches. The need to feel the weight of his cock in her hand, the texture of its tip in her mouth, spurred her into action. She rolled, catching him off balance, and didn’t stop until he was on his back. She straddled him adroitly, trapping his torso between her knees and squeezing just enough to make him gasp. Stormy eyes stared up at her, intense and brooding. Her heart stuttered at the passion in their depths, raw and powerful. She wanted to unleash it.

Daenerys bent to kiss him, and she was not gentle. She plunged her tongue into his mouth and moaned when he surged up against her, the chiseled muscles of his abdomen sliding against her stomach. Suddenly desperate to have no barriers between them, she broke the kiss and grasped his shoulders, pushing him back against to the mattress. When she sucked one firm nipple into her mouth, he grunted in surprise. She swirled her tongue around it, enjoying the way he squirmed against her as she worked him slowly.

She switched sides and gave his other nipple fair treatment before slowly sliding down his body. The dazed lust in his eyes made her cunt clench with the desire to hold him inside her, but she forced back the urge. Instead, she slid down his body to kneel between his legs and began undoing his belt buckle.

“I am going to tease you, Jon, she said quietly, her words punctuated by the soft snick of leather sliding through its metal cage. “When you are ready for the torment to end, you need only do one thing.”

He stared up at her, his expression dark and wild. “What?” he said, the single syllable harsh with need.

“Take me.”

Before he could reply, she pulled hard on the waist of his trousers, freeing him from both his pants and his smallclothes. The sight of his cock made her mouth water, and she gave in to the urge, grasping his hips with both hands and dipping her head to close her lips around him. The way he groaned her name was as beautiful as dragon song. She descended on him slowly, shifting one hand away from the blade of his hip bone to the base of his cock. When she wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed, he jerked up into her mouth.

And froze.

“I’m sor—”

The wet sound of her lips unsealing from his cock nearly made her forget her vehemence. Nearly. “Don’t you dare apologize,” she breathed before taking him in once more.

In her mouth and beneath her hand, he swelled and pulsed with desire. She pulled away to press light kisses to the swollen head of his cock and shifted her hand down to lightly rub his stones with the tips of her fingers. When he cursed, a string of low and guttural words she could barely make out, a heady surge of power flooded through her. Drogo had not endured even the semblance of teasing, and her stolen interludes with Daario had been too short to permit extended love play. Her single, tepid encounter with Hizdahr had been blessedly swift. But her and now with Jon, the night stretched out like a banquet, and she wished to sup slowly. To savor.

She crawled up his body until she could look down into his midnight eyes, and then he was cupping her head in his palms and pulling her down to him, and she was clinging to his shoulder with one hand even as she raked her nails up his side with the other, marking him. Claiming him.

When he bit down on her lower lip, she bucked her hips and groaned as his cock pressed firmly between her legs. She thrust against him, and pleasure arrowed down her spine. He tore his mouth away.

“Gods, the feel of you,” he grated.

And then he was kissing her again, and as their tongues dueled for dominance, the heat of their passion consumed every care, every worry, every trouble, until all she felt was Jon beneath her, hard and hungry and loving.


End file.
